


Some Things Taste Better Than Ciabatta

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: British TV Celebrities RPF, Chef RPF, Italy Unpacked RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Language Kink, M/M, Public Display of Affection, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: During one of their trips to Italy, a meal out one evening at a romantic bistro results in Andrew getting tomato sauce all over his chin and Giorgio wiping it off. He accuses the chef of deliberately doing it in order to flirt with him. And so what if he is? Cue the touching of knees under the table in the restaurant and eventual friskiness in a nearby alleyway.





	Some Things Taste Better Than Ciabatta

**Author's Note:**

> Italian phrases beta'd by the wonderful Mcicioni - thank you x

Italian sandwiches were anything but dainty; they weren't the type of finger sandwich you'd serve on a cake stand at afternoon tea, two pieces of cucumber to a slice of bread - no, _these_ sandwiches were robust, a meal in themselves and notoriously hard to eat. As he bit into his rustic ciabatta, Andrew left behind a trail of tomato sauce all over his chin and by the side of his mouth, as per usual. And, _as usual_ , tonight it made Giorgio giggle. The chef beckoned him, "Come over 'ere, you."

He tenderly cupped the older man's face and gently wiped at the substance with his thumb, turning it from red to a greasy orange. He tried to improve the appearance with a napkin. "S _udicione_ ," he chastised him and called him a 'dirty boy' amongst other things. By now they were both laughing and Andrew was frantically trying to scrub off the mess himself with a tissue. Giorgio couldn't help but smile at him, languidly. He loved spending time travelling with the art historian; they had such a wonderful time together and he was so very fond of him.

"You little flirt," Graham-Dixon accused.

"Whaaat? Me?" came the answer, jokingly.

"The way you sit looking at me, coquettishly batting your eyelashes, Giorgio," he grinned. "You'll be licking the sauce off my lips with your tongue next time."

"Hey'a, don't tempt me. It's a damn good sauce they make 'ere."

They both sniggered. But, perhaps being just a _little_ in love with the handsome Lombard sat before him, Andrew was intrigued by his reaction to all of this talk of kissing each other. Knowing Giorgio though, he had probably bypassed the thought of having to kiss Andrew in that exchange and shot straight to the part where he got to taste the beautifully rich tomato sauce again. Or maybe not, eh? Maybe Giorgio was thinking that tasting the sauce from his friend's mouth would make it even sweeter. _"Maybe we should try it,"_ was almost whispered.

"And I don'a know 'ow you can say dat," Locatelli pointed and wagged his finger, the ever-gesticulating Italian. "You are _always_ flirting with me! Oh, Giorgio - with your'a big strong muscles - please 'elp me open this jar of olives as I am so weak and feeble."

"The lid was stuck!"

"Se lo dici tu," he chuckled. _If you say so_. "But you want'a me. You know it."

"Be careful what you wish for," Andrew smirked, raising his hand in the air to attract the waiter's attention.

He didn't need any encouragement to make a move on Giorgio. Little else had entered his head in the past half hour; little else had entered his head for all the time he had known Giorgio, if he really thought about it. And now they were sat here in this restaurant, checker-board tablecloth and surrounded by romantic candles like Lady and the Tramp (Andrew would later spend _some_ time trying to work out which one was which), minds couldn't help but wander to the thought of messy spaghetti and lips meeting lips, and they were already halfway there.

"Is that a promise?" the Italian's voice was growling. The tone of it went straight to Andrew's groin. This was going to happen now, whether Giorgio was serious or not.

A suited gentleman appeared at the table. The chef was just about to order a dessert when all of a sudden he felt a hand snake across his thigh, moving rapidly yet sensually, and now dangerously near his crotch. He stammered, changing his words, "I'll have a... Uh.. no, I'll have the bill please..." _My god._ This was something which couldn't continue here. " _Andrea..."_ he gasped, making sure the waiter was well out of earshot. "What are you _doing_?"

When Andrew mumbled the words, "Let's go back to the guesthouse," Giorgio wasn't even sure he could hang around long enough for the _cameriere_ to return with the bill. He was tempted to chuck a bundle of Euros on to the table and leave. His cock was hardening in his jeans and his friend's fingers were now worryingly close to finding it.

"Ti sta tremando la gamba," Andrew teased Giorgio in his mother tongue. _Your leg is trembling._

"I know." He added, in thought alone, "My god, I know."

The bill arrived in what seemed like forever and, with "grazies" said and money and tip thrown hurriedly onto the table's top, they couldn't wait to make their exit from the little bistro. In fact, the guesthouse was a good half a mile away and they couldn't even wait to make it back to _there_ \- it was too far away and the heat of the moment would be lost. When Giorgio spied a narrow, inconspicuous and, most importantly, _empty_ alleyway - bar for a few stray cats meowing and living in the dustbins - he dragged Andrew by his suit jacket, down deep into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" the historian questioned.

"We're going to do dis in the street," Giorgio hissed. The words themselves were enough to make them both lose it there and then. He tried to carry on, but Andrew was growing impatient and he pulled the Michelin starred chef forwards and kissed him, passionately and until neither of them could no longer draw breath. His frenzied hands were grasping into Giorgio's curly hair; his tongue was as deeply implanted in his mouth. Panting, they broke away momentarily to gauge one another's reaction.

"How can you be so 'ungry after all of that food?" the Italian laughed.

"I'm hungry for _you_ ," Andrew whined. "You were right. Ti voglio, Giorgio." _I want you._

He began to undo his colleague's belt, but his fingers were beginning to shake. Between the pair of them, they managed to slip the leather strip from its sheath and, not before long, Locatelli's trousers were undone. A curious and desperate hand ventured in, grasping at the erection. Andrew was in awe of how large it had become in such a short space of time and how _restricted_ it felt within the boxers. He too was very, _very_ aroused, and was even more so for every time Giorgio moaned at the older man's fist sliding over his dick.

"Is'a amazing," Locatelli groaned, between expletives in his mother tongue, "I am'a so turned on, Andrew. Don'a stop." Determined Italian hands were tugging at the second of the belt buckles. Giorgio wanted nothing more than to return the favour for his colleague. As a man of food and a man of passion - someone who enjoyed many tastes and the prospect of tasting new things - he was _dying_ to taste his friend's cock, which he soon had freed, throbbing and open to the air. They kissed again, briefly, before he bobbed downwards.

Giorgio had told Andrew not to stop and now he was crouching on the ground, completely out of his reach. "You told me not to stop. How am I supposed to carry on when you're down-- oh!" he exclaimed, almost knocked off his feet by the sensation he felt.

Andrew felt unsteady. A rush of blood found his head, which was funny because so much blood was rushing to his groin, he was surprised there was any left to spare. Giorgio was sucking on his cock, greedily, managing to take most of it into his throat and repeating it over and over again. He stopped occasionally to flutter his tongue over the head, evoking cries from above.

"Oh my god... I'll never accuse you of having a big mouth ever again, Giorgio," Andrew almost wailed with pleasure. "At least not as an insult, anyway. Mamma _fucking_ mia." Mere minutes later, and the feeling was becoming overwhelming. "I'm sorry," he whimpered, between the grunts and sucking sounds coming from between his legs, "If we keep going like this, I'm going to come."

Graham-Dixon was gripping tightly onto the wall behind him, his finger-ends pressed into the masonry. The harder he held onto those bricks, the longer he hoped it would make him last.

"But dat's what I'a want, Andrew," Giorgio said, breathily, "I want you to come for me. _Fallo per me._ " _Do it for me._ Before he could finish speaking, the words had tipped Andrew over the edge and his cock was twitching by itself, climaxing over the chef's lips and down onto his shirt. Giorgio managed to engulf Andrew's erection for one last time in order to swallow some of the thick liquid, before the art historian was completely spent.

"Oh Jesus, Giorgio," he sighed. He outstretched his hand and helped the other man to stand. Locatelli was thoroughly debauched, his hair tangled and his mouth and chin splattered with the unmentionable. It was hastily removed with the tomato-covered napkin they obtained earlier on in the evening.

The presenter mouthed quietly into Giorgio's ear, "It's your turn to come." And, with that, Giorgio was so desperate that his knees nearly gave way for him to drop him to the floor again. Andrew caught him in his arms and brought him close, still whispering filthy words into his ear about how he wanted to fuck him silly, moving down towards his neck to kiss the flesh there, lightly _biting_ him and eliciting a hiss of delight. He began to pump his erection once more and, this time, he did not stop until the job was done.

As he continued to nuzzle him, the younger man suddenly went limp in his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were now clearly standing. "Troppo... troppo," Locatelli groaned, his o's elongated. _T_ _oo much._ He was quickly coming in Andrew's grip, spilling over his fist and onto the ground below. He muttered something frantic in Italian which the Englishman couldn't quite catch, but - _regardless_ \- he was definitely under the impression that his co-host had enjoyed himself. Finally, in English, Giorgio moaned, "Jus'a fucking fantastic, Andrew."

Andrew smiled, wiping his hands with the _extremely_ handy napkin they had swiped earlier from the restaurant. But as he held it up to fold it in two once again and put it in his jacket pocket, Giorgio noticed something about it - he noticed something which he didn't even notice when they sat down in the restaurant, or when they chose from the menu. He took the napkin from Andrew's hand, as to get a better look at it.

He held it aloft and read the inscription. "Casa Amore? Seriously, Andrew?"

They both fell about with laughter. "Do you think we're the first to come under its spell?"

"Who knows, man," Giorgio agreed. They began to dust themselves down and tidy themselves up, as much as they possibly could under the circumstances. He couldn't help but then add, "But it _is_ true that I'a love you, Andrew - you know it, right?"

"I think it's just the spell talking," Andrew grinned at him. "Or the handjob. Perhaps."

"Or your'a beautiful eyes..."

"Shut up."

"Or your 'andsome looks..." Giorgio carried on, his arm wrapped around Andrew as they exited the alleyway.

"Shut up."

"Or your'a massive--"

"Stop it!" Andrew laughed, still tightly held in Giorgio's embrace.

"Brain, I was about to say. _God_ , Andrew...


End file.
